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Honey
Honey Honey, Darling, I need to ask you a question. That question is 'Why?' So, why? Was it because you lost your love for me? Was it because your love for him was stronger? Or was it because you wanted to humiliate me? Break me? Destroy me from the inside out? Well, whatever your reason was, You did it. You humiliated me. You broke me. You destroyed me. You ripped me apart and left me to succumb on the sidelines. Congratulations, bitch, you deserve a fucking medal. Remember that dinner? That dinner at your parents' place? When after the turkey and the mashed potatoes had been cleaned, You hovered over your apple pie and moaned about how you missed him? Remember him? He grew up fast, didn't he? Became a lawyer. Didn't care much to see you again, I bet. You kept talking about him, talking about the memories you had playing make-believe in the woods after school. I held my tongue, though. Be thankful for that. "Why didn't I stay with him?" Bitch, Shut the fuck up. I don't want to fucking hear about it. We walked home that night. You said that the air was so clear and crisp and cool that evening, Sitting inside that stuffy car of yours was bad for the lungs. And you still kept talking about him. I glued my lips shut as you bemoaned how our union had cost you your first love. Again? Seriously? You're talking about him again? You fucking bitch! When we got home, Stripped off our clothes, Fell into bed, Something in your head told you that you hadn't explained to me enough times how you switched lunches by the brook during lunch hour and laughed and looked into each other's eyes and smiled. As you turned over, Your back glowing yellow by the lamp's light, You kept droning on and on and on and on and on. And I sat there, Throat dry no matter how much I swallowed, Skin becoming caked with sweat despite the cold breeze from the window, My body seizing in its death throes, As you talked. You talked, And talked, And talked, Turned away so you couldn't see the expression on my face. This is ironic, isn't it? The light of my life burning through the very fibers of my soul. I'm about to ignite right now, into a fireball of rage. I want to reach over, Turn you around, And jab my arm through your chest like a fucking spear. Seize your heart and tear it loose, Pulling it from your quivering body, And stuff it in my mouth. Mmm. It tastes just like apple pie. What does mine taste like? What does my heart taste like, bitch? So, Honey, Darling, I need to ask you a question. That question is 'Why'? So, why? Was it because you lost your love for me? Was it because your love for him was stronger? Or was it because you wanted to humiliate me? Break me? Destroy me? Well, whatever you reason was, You did it. You humiliated me. You broke me. You destroyed me. You ripped me apart and left me to succumb on the sidelines. Congratulations, bitch! Here's your fucking medal! I know I'm being irrational, I know I am, But for the life of my I can't take this. I just can't. I want you so bad. You are my only friend. You are my only love. You are my only wife. Before I met you I was alone, Roaming this city directionless and isolated from the rest of fucking society, Sticking out like a sore thumb in any crowd. No one talked to me. They were either afraid of me, Suspicious of me, Or loathing of me. But not you. Oh, not you. You liked me. You talked to me. You touched my hand at the coffee shop when we drank and talked about our chemistry. 10 years. 10 years of marriage, and I can no longer take it. Don't take this the wrong way, Because I love you, But I also hate you. I hate you almost as much as I hate myself. I wanted you. I wanted you all for myself. I never let anyone else even show affection towards you, And I hoarded you, left you in the house and treated you as my own fucking slave. I was a controlling bastard, And I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so sorry. And even though you'll never forgive for what I've done, Or what I've thought, Or what I've felt that makes you hate me. I'm sorry for everything I've made you do, Or made you think, Or made you feel. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so, so, so, sorry. The gun's loaded. I bought a box last night and cleaned it just this morning. Oh, what are you going to do? You can answer a question for me. And answer it truthfully: Why? Category:Poetry Category:Original Story Category:Real Life Category:Creepypasta Category:Creepypastas